The Rebel Code

Chapter Nine - Part One

Eventually my body wins the battle for sleep, and I find myself waking up after a completely disorienting nap. The bus's engine hums low against my shoes. I raise my head from where it's fallen against my sister's shoulder and rub my eyes, trying to adjust to the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

"Where..." I mutter.

Mo answers my question before I can coherently form it. "Manufacturing. It's almost five o' clock. You were out cold."

Almost eight hours of sleep has me feeling refreshed again, but with the refreshment is a sense of impending doom. That means we're eight hours closer to wherever it is John is taking us. I look around at the unfamiliar scenery of the Manufacturing Province's rural areas. We're on a long stretch of highway cutting through field after field of shimmering, golden grass. Flax, maybe, or some other fiber material I've read about in school. In the distance, wide plateaus rise up towards the sky, clouds brushing over their tops. A few fields are lined with rows of straight, dry trees that shake in the dust clouds the bus forms.

"It's pretty, huh?" says Mo.

I press my nose against the glass and watch the rows of golden stalks bend in the wind. "I thought there would be more factories."

"Oh, you'll see factories soon enough." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small plastic packet. "Want some potato chips? They came by with a food cart at the last stop, and that's the closest we're getting to a lunch today."

I gratefully accept the chips, washing them down with some water and a few Tropical Flavor Blasts. After a quick run to the bathroom on the back of the bus, I'm back in my seat and feeling pretty good, considering the circumstances. I lean against the window, watching fields turn into farms and farms turn into long, flat stretches of town. There are big, gray buildings in the distance, with towers that spear the clouds and spew billowing clouds of steam.

Across the aisle, John sits meditatively, watching the scenery pass. He looks ordinary, and so do I, and so does Mo. We look like every other person on this bus. Tired. Dressed for the heat. On our way to somewhere else. John glances at me and we share a moment of understanding and a smile, as if he's silently thanking me for my cooperation. I try to give him a look that says yes, yes I'm doing fine. I'll be okay. In response he holds up two fingers, nodding at the clock overhead. Two more hours on the road, and then we'll be in Johannesburg, in the Business Province. My legs feel shaky at the very thought.

After what feels like an eternity of waiting, of watching steppes and grass, the bus finally alerts us that we're only an hour away, and we'll be passing into the Business Province soon. I find it hard to believe that there's any sort of city out in the flat emptiness we've been crossing for miles, but something has to be coming up. We pass over a long river, across a concrete bridge, and into town after ordinary town, all sun-baked and quiet in the golden evening light. Then, the brown grass turns green and lush with farmland, and big lion-headed clouds roll in from the mountains, bringing splashes of rain that cool the hot windows. For a while the highway follows the curve of the river. Then, we drift away into more thickly settled country, and the road does a quick roundabout, pointing us, finally, in the direction of the city.

"We're in the Business Province," I hear John say at last.

I look around quickly, but I don't see anything incredibly different. We're in a red brick town with some gnarled trees, but other than that, there aren't many signs of an enormous city. There are ordinary palm trees and ordinary electrical wires stretched across the plains between silver towers. A gas station. A car warehouse. A barbecue restaurant. The highway stretches on and on, over fields and rivers. I keep my eyes open for Johannesburg, but it doesn't come in a stunning revelation the way Cape Town did. Johannesburg creeps up on me a little bit at a time, until suddenly we're in the thick of it.